


Dance of Falling Stars

by DetectiveRoboRyan



Category: LoliRock (Cartoon)
Genre: Both of these fuckers have dirty dirty minds, Cultural Differences, Dancing, Denial, F/F, Fluff, Hormones, Lesbians! Yay!, Makeouts, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Pining, Sloppy Makeouts, Steamy Imaginations, Teenagers, Tsunderes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-20
Updated: 2016-10-20
Packaged: 2018-08-23 12:56:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8328796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DetectiveRoboRyan/pseuds/DetectiveRoboRyan
Summary: Carissa didn't mean to fall in love. Neither did Lyna. It would've been a bit easier if Izira had just let them at each other and let them either kill each other or make out-- whatever happened first. But things don't always work out the way people expect, and all it means in the end is that Izira wins the bet.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place before, during, and shortly after _Home Part II._ I was listening to ludicrous amounts of Avicii as I wrote this so take that as you will. Also there needs to be more Lyna/Carissa in this fandom. Why do I put Lyna first, you ask? Because she tops seven times out of ten and I cannot be told otherwise.

Carissa sees Lyna first growing crystal flowers in her hands to amuse the children in camp. Red lips parted, glimmering, skin glowing with the magic that flows more plentiful than water on Ephedia. Carissa has seen her before because Calix and Borealis are neighbors, but beyond mandatory meetings (bowing, shaking hands, perhaps a second or two of eye contact), Carissa barely knows her. If she were Calite, like Carissa was raised, she could've gone up and punched her in the shoulder and asked her to train together, but Carissa has learned _that's not how they do it in Borealis._  
  
She tries, actually. Once the children walk away, Carissa gives Lyna a friendly slug to the shoulder but before she could compliment her fighting skills or spirit or determination, Lyna yelps and says, _that hurt! What was that for?_ And Carissa's eyes widen seeing the bruise form on her soft-looking skin (not that Carissa often thought about how soft it was— delicate beneath her own calloused palms, treated well by the warm ocean air of Borealis; so soft that it would feel nice for their cheeks to touch, just a bit, or their arms to brush when they walked past one another— no, she never thought of that).  
  
"I'm sorry, I—" she blunders through the words not unlike a minor rockslide caused by some unfortunate trainee hitting the side of the wrong mountain too hard. (But all the mountains looked the same, so how was she to know which mountain was unstable?) "—I just thought w-we could train together, maybe?"  
  
"You've got some nerve, coming up and _punching_ someone," Lyna snips, rubbing the bruise on her arm. "Maybe that's how the mountain _barbarians_ do it, but they're _civilized_ here on the mainland."  
  
Carissa feels offense searing-hot in her gut. "Well— well—" she sputters. "Well at least I'm no weak _lowlander!_ At least I can take a hit without whining!"  
  
 Lyna glares. "Well, _next_ time you want to punch somebody, punch one of your _barbarian_ friends." And then she turns on a heel, smacking Carissa in the face with her long, green hair, and marches off with her nose in the air.  
  
"Well— well— fine," Carissa huffs to nobody. "Fine!" And she storms back to the training yard, trying (and failing) not to think about how Lyna's hair had smelled like sweet flowers and warm pots of herbal tea.

* * *

 

The second time doesn't go much better. Izira calls them both, as her loyal lieutenants, to the meeting to discuss the next safest spot to camp where Gramorr won't find them.  
  
"The scouts have found a few likely places," Izira muses, pointing to the map. "Here and here are our two best options. Possibility A is closer and near resources, but B is in an abandoned Ephedian fortress and I'd imagine most of the civilians would feel safer with four walls and an actual roof over their heads."  
  
"There's a lot to be said for the feeling of security," Lyna contributes. "Though I'm not sure. It's quite a trek from the river."  
  
"But if need be, we can make that trek," Carissa replies. "We can send groups to bring water back."  
  
"What if they get attacked on the way, though?" Lyna asks. "I mean, I don't think it's _likely_ , but it's possible."  
  
Carissa doesn't see the point. "Well, if we want water, that's how we get it."  
  
"I _know_ , but—" Lyna rolls her eyes. "I'm just thinking of the _possibilities_ beacuse that's what strategey is about, you know. Not that I'd expect a _barbarian_ to know."  
  
Carissa slams her fists on the war table. "Just what do _you_ know about us, stuffy lowlander?" she demands.  
  
 "More than _you_ know about tactics, apparently!" Lyna fires back.  
  
Carissa reaches for her weapon but Izira's hand on her arm stops her. "Both of you!" she orders, in that army-commander voice she's practiced for a very, very long time. "Stop this, now!"

Carissa doesn't want to, but she grumbles and removes her hand from her clubs. Lyna tosses her hair and folds her arms and sniffs, and Carissa wants nothing more than to wipe that smug, haughty look off her face. (Maybe with her own face, she thinks. And she could put her fingers through Lyna's long hair, collect handfuls of it and bring it to her cheek. It's probably as soft as the rest of her and it smells so sweet, she knows, and she wonders if it'd smell sweeter if it weren't on Lyna. And maybe Lyna's head on her shoulder, mouth at her neck, fingers interlaced… or one hand on Lyna's back, that would work. Yes, like they're dancing, because Lyna surely knows more about that kind of dance than Carissa. She'd lead and Carissa would follow, and it'd be dark and there'd be no music but they both know the tune because every Ephedian learns the Dance of Falling Stars. Carissa would hum it and Lyna would lead in the steps, and they'd sway, ever so gently, softly; Carissa would close her eyes and not want it to end, and then they'd kiss— and Carissa has to shove these thoughts down harshly because she _absolutely does not_ want to kiss Lyna and _absolutely does not_ want to dance with her in the moonlight when all the brightness from the stars and the crystal plants make Lyna look like a being knit from light and gems. _Absolutely not.)_  
  
Izira sighs. " _Honestly_. Both of you have to stop this bickering like children— You are not _enemies_ , you're _allies_ , and you're _both_ my subordinates in this fight. We can't let personal relationships affect our cause."  
  
"Of course," Lyna promises, holding her head high and turning it to Carissa. "So, _Carissa?"_ And somehow Lyna saying her name sounds haughtier than when she said 'barbarian.'  
  
Carissa doesn't want to agree. She folds her arms and looks at Izira as if asking, _'You really want me to play nice with the woman that called me a barbarian?'_  
  
 Izira raises an eyebrow and gestures with her head to Lyna. She's not playing.  
  
So Carissa grits her teeth and says, "Alright, _Lyna_. We'll be professionals." And she doesn't hide the venom in the way she said 'Lyna' (even though she could see it rolling from her tongue with the cadence of stones in the mountains, off her lips when hers were right up next to Lyna's cheek, neck, shoulder; her breath hitching when she says it, _Lyna, Lyna,_ like flowers and herbal tea, the sweet taste of the blush on her cheeks. She doesn't want to kiss Lyna but every time she thinks that, it gets harder to believe it).   
  
When they leave, Izira makes a bet with her general. "Five caegars say they end up making out," she decides. "Ten if they go all the way."  
  
"Are you sure, ma'am?" the general says, quirking her head to the side. "I'd say they'd sooner kill each other."  
  
 "I'm sure if you're sure, general," Izira teases. She raises an eyebrow. "Are you in or not?"  
  
The general considers it. "I'll see that bet," she decides. "And I'll raise it. Ten for a fight, twenty if they both end up in the infirmary."  
  
Izira grins. "You're on."

* * *

 

The third time Carissa doesn't count because it was in the middle of a fight. But Lyna counts it— oh, she counts it.  
  
They're at the front of the caravan, and Lyna has a hand on her chakram just in case. And an instant later, Gramorr's forces attack— a squad of black crystal soldiers leaping from the trees where none were there before. Izira claps her hands and puts a barrier of blue around the civilians. At least they'll be safe.  
  
Lyna leaps. She throws her chakram to her left, slicing through the row of black crystal soldiers. On her right, she's about to throw the next one when an arrow knocks it out of her hand and pins it to the tree.  
  
 _Eep_. She turns, wide-eyed. Whilst the remnants of various Ephedian armies battle the other soldiers, the black crystal leader has Lyna marked with a lethally-sharp spike in a crossbow. It takes aim. It shoots.  
  
Lyna's on the ground, and there's a heavy weight all of muscle and strength pinning her down.  
  
"Are you okay?" Carissa shouts. Sweat drips from her face. She's flushed from the heat of battle, Calite armor scratched and tarnished but shining nonetheless. Her blue eyes glimmer in the light, brows furrowed in worry. Her hair, violet as the crystal flowers Lyna uses to make tea, is unkempt. There are leaves sticking out of it. There's a scrape on her cheek and her lip is cut. Lyna almost reaches up and swipes away some of the dirt on her chin with her thumb, and doesn't. She just nods, trying to remember how to breathe.  
  
The monster takes aim again. "Get down!" Carissa orders, leaping over her and holding out a violet crystal shield. The arrow shatters against the shield. Carissa hurls one of her clubs at the monster and smashes it. Lyna will admit it, she stares a bit at Carissa's biceps— but by the Realms, they're fantastic. Carissa could probably lift her with little to no exertion. Lyna blushes and blames it on the heat of battle.  
  
Carissa looks back at her once the battle ends. Lyna wants to push her hair out of her face and tuck it behind her ear. "You should be more careful," she says, offering a hand.  
  
 "You just saved my life," Lyna says, getting to her feet.  
  
 Carissa averts her eyes, cheeks red. She clears her throat. "Yes, well, uh," she stammers. "Izira would be upset if her lieutenat were cut down, and I can't do _all_ of the lieutenant-ing by myself, you know. I never have been good at tactics anyway, so, uh, it really is best for there to be two of us—"  
  
Lyna laughs. It's refreshing to do and probably refreshing to hear. Carissa grins sheepishly.  
  
"Thank you," she says. "I'm kind of glad to not be dead."  
  
 "I'm kind of glad you're not being dead, too," Carissa admits. And when Lyna, acting on instinct and Borealite tradition, leans up and kisses her cheek, Carissa's face burns. She buries her face in her hands and half-staggers back to camp, probably to punch out her feelings. But Lyna doesn't regret it.

* * *

 

The fourth time is hopeful. Lyna leans against the crumbling stone wall of what was once a training yard in the Ephedian fortress, watching Carissa train— her armor is off and she's in shorts and boots laced tightly, strips of cotton wrapping supporting her chest and absorbing the sweat. Lyna doesn't pretend to ignore the way her lips are pouted in concentration and the way her chest huffs— in on the swing of the club, out when it hits the makeshift dummy she's made of a stack of rocks and a cape stolen from one of Gramorr's minions. Her muscles shake, abdominals and triceps outlined and moving, shifting as she swivels her body. Lyna rests her chin on her hand, elbow leaned on the wall, and watches.  
  
She could probably touch Carissa's biceps if she asked, because Carissa seems the type to appreciate that sort of attention. Lyna could run her hand up it, making an appreciative noise about how strong it must be. She'd trace her hand up the muscle and to Carissa's collarbone, up her neck, to her chin, around the back of her head. She'd tilt her head up just a bit and their lips would meet, and Carissa would put one strong hand on her waist, pull her closer. Lyna would push it around to her back, maybe lower, _maybe_ — they'd break apart for air and then kiss again, hard and bruising, closer this time, closer. Lyna would have her hands on Carissa's cheeks, ther lips together, apart to breathe and back in, again and again, ungraceful gulps of air but the taste of her lips is intoxicating, and every time one pulls away the other pulls her back in for more, more, just another taste, just another second. Somehow they'd probably end up on the ground and it's dirty but Lyna doesn't care (and she's on top, _obviously_ , because a lady doesn't roll around in the dirt even though that is exactly what she's doing) and she'd put her hands on Carissa's upper back and say—  
  
"Are you waiting for someone?"  
  
Lyna's daydreams shatter, and right when it was getting to the good part, too. She bites back a curse. "No," she says. "Just… um."  
  
Carissa quirks an eyebrow. She's honestly confused— Lyna looks around awkwardly and sputters, "I-I thought you may be thirsty so I, ah, brought you some tea?" And because she has a container of crystal flower tea, cooled and sweetened with fruit juice, so it's a believable lie.  
  
"Oh," Carissa says, mildly bemused. "That's nice of you. I suppose it's time for a break, anway." So she sets her club aside and vaults over the wall on one arm. She sits on the crumbling stone with her feet braced against the wall, ankles crossed. It's a casual position and Lyna is most definitely not prepared for casual.   
  
Lyna hands her the flask. "It's crystal flower," she says, averting her eyes from Carissa's muscles. "In, um, Borealis, we drink it after training."  
  
"Ah," Carissa says, taking a sip of the tea. "Appropriate, then. Thank you."  
  
 _Say something, idiot,_ Lyna hisses at herself. _What do I say?_ Lyna asks herself desperately. _Something, anything is beter than standing here in silence,_ Lyna replies. But Carissa isn't graceful or elegant and these are the things Lyna has been taught are the pinnacle of beauty— except she thinks that perhaps that was wrong, because watching Carissa, all raw strength and spirit and determination, has been more beautiful to her than any fancy magical routine she'd ever seen in Borealis.  
  
"Why don't you practice wearing a shirt?" Lyna blurts. Carissa, flask of tea tilted back, pauses and raises an eyebrow. She coughs and wipes the dribble of tea from her mouth with her wrist.  
  
"What?" she asks, confused.  
  
 "I-I mean," Lyna stammers. "Not that I mind— I mean, don't you think someone could come by and see? Or something could slip out? Or— well—"  
  
"No, I don't really think so," Carissa shrugs. "In Calix, we train up in the mountains to make our lungs strong. We haul rocks up to the peaks. It's cold up there, but excess clothing gets in the way. I've trained like this all my life, and not once has anything 'slipped out.' Unless…" She gives Lyna a wolfish grin and leans forwards, an elbow on her knee. "Curious what it would be like, are we?"  
  
Lyna flushes in indignation and almost-offense. Carissa winks and Lyna, acting on impulse (her stupid, stupid impulse), balls up her fist and punches Carissa in the face.   
  
It doesn't hurt that much to Carissa, but she's so surprised, she falls backwards off the wall and lands in the dirt. "Ouch," she mutters.  
  
"Oh my goodness!" Lyna gasps. She runs to the other side of the wall and helps Carissa back to sitting. "I'm so sorry, I— I don't know what I was thinking! Are you alright?"  
  
Carissa works her jaw. "I'll be fine," she promises. "I didn't know Borealites could _hit_ like that."  
  
"Yes, well," Lyna flushes. "I didn't know Calites could _flirt_ like that."  
  
"I came on too strong, didn't I," Carissa sighs. "I suppose I have much to learn there."  
  
"It surprised me, that's all," Lyna admits.  
  
They look at each other for a few seconds. Then Lyna feels a smile crawl its way onto her face, and she giggles. Carissa tries to stifle it, but she snorts into her hand, and in seconds they're laughing again, because how unexpected is it that Carissa can flirt and Lyna can punch?  
  
When they kiss, it's because it's the most natural thing in the world— smiles pressed together, tasting like safety and sunshine and hope. It's nothing like Lyna's daydreams, but she doesn't even mind, because it's ten times better.

* * *

 

The fifth time is probably not the fifth time, and in fact the whole counting thing is a moot point because they see each other every day— but Carissa makes a point to count every extra-special moment with Lyna, for no particular reason. So the fifth time is when the battle against Gramorr is over, for the moment, and Izira has sent them to Earth to free the Earthlings from the black crystal prisons, and there they'll stay, helping Izira's sister and her friends when they're needed. They're in the guest bedroom in Iris's human guardian's home for the night and Lyna leans in the window alcove. Her hair is dark, dark as the midnight sky, without Ephedia's magic in it. She's beautiful.  
  
"There are so many stars here," Lyna says. "Did you realize how many? Even with the human cities making light, you can still see them."  
  
"There were stars on Ephedia," Carissa replies.  
  
"But we could never look at them," Lyna says. "We were always on the move. And now here we are."  
  
 _I'd rather look at you than look at the stars,_ Carissa thinks. "I… suppose," she says. She's not sure what to say. Lyna pulls the blanket she's sitting with further around her shoulders and keeps looking at the sky. The Earth sky is lovely, Carissa admits, but it's always going to play second fiddle to Lyna.  
  
 "I have a confession to make," Carissa says, sitting down on the other side of the window seat. "Do you know when I hit you trying to talk to you for the first time?"  
  
 "I had a bruise for a week," Lyna replies. "What was that about? You never got the chance to explain it."  
  
"In Calix, it's how we make friends," Carissa explains. "I thought… well, honestly, I thought you were beautiful and your hands looked very soft and holdable, but I also thought that maybe we could be friends. And then maybe I could hold your hand. For awhile, anyway. Then it got… _racier_. You know."  
  
Lyna chuckles. "Believe me, I do," she admits. "I used to watch you train and daydream about touching your abs and kissing you, usually at the same time."  
  
"That was why you watched me train so much?" Carissa realizes. "Because of my abs?"  
  
"Carissa, have you _seen_ your abs?" Lyna retorts. "Maybe that's normal in Calix, but Borealis? Definitely not. I could do my _laundry_ on your abs, Carissa. That's seriously impressive."  
  
 Carissa blushes. It's cute, Lyna thinks, seeing her blush. "I sometimes think about touching your… bottom," Carissa blurts. "It's soft and nice and I think it would squish."  
  
"How _risque_ of you," Lyna teases. Carissa makes a face, and Lyna laughs. And when the laughter calms, she says, "Remember that time we fell asleep together in one of the caravans when we tried to sneak out to kiss?"  
  
 "How could I forget?" Carissa snorts. "Izira took a picture."  
  
Lyna chuckles, and kisses Carissa's cheek. "I really liked falling asleep with you. And every night we do, I think I'm lucky to have that chance."  
  
"I'm lucky to have you at all," Carissa replies.  
  
"Don't make this into a competition," Lyna huffs. But Carissa kisses her nose and all negativity is forgotten.  
  
They press their foreheads together. Lyna thinks she must've done something wonderfully, fantastically right to be able to get to where she is now, and Carissa remembers something.  
  
She stands, and holds out her hand, face burning despite everything. "Dance with me," she says. "You know the Dance of Falling Stars, right?"  
  
"Of course," Lyna says, puzzled. "Everyone does."  
  
"Then dance with me," Carissa says again. She tugs at the collar of the old borrowed t-shirt she's wearing. It's comically large even on Carissa and it's dark blue with a picture of an earth whale on its front, and there are bleached spots on the front and sleeves. Her face is red even in the darkness. Lyna smiles, thinks again how lucky she is, and takes her hand.  
  
"I'll lead," she murmurs. Carissa starts to hum the Dance of Falling Stars tune, an old Ephedian melody as old as time itself, and its one-two-three-four-five-six-one-two-three-four-five-six beat. And they dance.


End file.
